Lovebirds

STUDY DATE

Just having him in the room is a comfort. Feeling the mattress sink a little lower behind her and the squeaks it sometimes speaks to remind her he's still there. That he's still considering that same topic question for the English essay that's due in two days because he's not sure the concepts he's come up with are good enough. His essays are always wonderful.

Spencer draws the last number of her physics problem with a celebratory flourish, delighted to be finished. Tips her head back to rest upon the mattress, feeling the bed press into her spine, massaging the sore surrounding muscles.

"Finished?" His voice is soft, yet hoarse from disuse. They've been silent for the past two hours, every second filling her chest with warmth... and her head with physics, and she's relieved to be able to return her thoughts to him.  

Spencer nods, shaking the mattress.

"Give me a minute, then."

Vincent scribbles a few more notes in his spiral, types a couple comments on his computer then sets everything aside, slipping off the bed to sit beside her on the floor. His hand rests atop hers and the blood pumping through her heart beats so quickly she fears her insides bursting. He has quite the effect on her. And yet the idea of... officiality still bears a heavy weight.

Nevertheless, she puts her head on his shoulder as he claims her hand, putting it in his lap, calmly playing with her fingers.

"You're worried about something," he identifies.

A car speeds down the distant highway, engine revving. The sunset falls through the window like fire, dousing them in flames. The way it emphasizes the shadows of her face only amplifies her beauty. She may not always know it—or want to admit it—but she really is quite timelessly beautiful; a true classic. He kisses the top of her head, still resting on his shoulder.

And he swears he can feel her rolling her eyes.

"Have you been keeping up with the vinceandspence Insta?" She softly inquires.

"Not religiously," he admits. "Is it too much?"

Spencer licks her lips, lifting her head to stare out the window. Gives all her focus to the house across the street and the vibrant colors that frame it.

Then finally, "he took a picture of us at the rink, after the game last week."

Shifting completely to face her, Vincent's face is shrouded in a mixture of fear and confusion and amusement and worry. Brow low, eyes sharp.

"How did he—"

"I have no frick'n clue." Her eyes find Vincent's, his expression clouded.

His reaction allows her some relief: he feels the same. Without thinking, without reasoning, she reaches her hand to the back of his neck. Pulls him closer and presses her lips against his. Gently, appreciation and yearning lacing every second as his hands cradle her cheeks and she kisses deeper.

It's in moments like this where Vince sometimes wishes he knew why she'd never call him her boyfriend. Never give their relationship an official label, claim him as her own so that he could do the same-- to get images of Ambrose Holley, bringing her a slushy, out of his head.

But he's not one to push. And he'd rather be near her than lose her in trying to claim her. He must be selfish in an unselfish way.

Vincent kisses her deeper, pulls her closer, hands falling to the small of her back to pull her onto his lap. She moves with ease, nipping at his bottom lip. And neither of them notices the notification that lights up their silent phones on the nightstand, not five feet away, as she tugs at the hem of his shirt.